“They saw their injured country's woe;
The flaming town, the wasted field;
Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;
They took the spear, - but left the shield.”
―Philip Freneau
.
And by a prudent flight and cunning save A life which valour could not, from the grave. A better buckler I can soon regain, But who can get another life again?
Archilochus
Saturday, April 25, 2020
1-4 the Snark-o-Philes...
...who lack the Soul of Genius...
“Neither a lofty degree of intelligence nor imagination nor both together go to the making of genius. Love, love, love, that is the soul of genius.”
The divinely gifted Mozart instinctively knew wheref he spoke, and –– at least in his art –– he was never wrong.
Duke Ellington knew it too, and expressed it in his own idiom when h wrote, "It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing. Doo Wah Doo Wah Doo Wah Doo Wah!
Both were really reiterating what St. Paul wrote in 1 Corinthians, 13. which says in essence that no matter how brilliant,powerful, colossal, effortful or advanced our achievements are worthless unless they are conceived in and motivated by Love (Charity).
I believe this really means "unless they are infused by the Holy Spirit.
C.S. Lewis, another type og genius, also understood and did his best to live by the same divine precept.
Not so the demon-inspired Marxists and the host of other malcontents and troublemakers who came before the diabolical, beardedl Karl.
Thank you for the lovely video of Inspector Lewis and his able assistant Hathaway who did their best to replace the erudite, patrician Opera-loving Inspector Morse after that august fellow whose life came to an untimely end, because he scorned the advice of his physicians..
Inspector Lewis may have been made from more common clay then his superior, but he was a good stout fellow, devoted to duty, with the instincts of a bloodhound, and nobody's fool.
Hathaway is atonishingly learned – especially for a policeman –– but retiring for such a young man, socially awkward and almost painfully shy with women.
Author Colin Dexter who created these characters, and wrote a series of highly engaging novels set in Oxford about the exploits of Inspector Morse, was a kind of genius, himself.
The opening sequences of the Inspector Lewis video have reawakened and underscored my personal conviction that, Heaven, if such a place exists, will for me be a well-loved, well-tended English Garden belonging to a venerable manor house where tea is laid out on wicker furniture optimally placed on the lawn every day the weather is fine.
Only the chirping of birds, and the gentle murmuring of a stream or trickling fountain disturbs the peace and stillness of the atmosphere. Machinery doesn't exist.
In the evening live performances by fine. well-schooled performers of Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann, Chopin, Brahms, Wagner, Strauss, Mhler an Hugo Wolf grace the Music Room before the evening collation is served to the artists and select number of congenial, appreciative, well-mannered guests.
A deep and dreamless sleep comes easily till one is gently awakened by the arrival of the mornng tea tray brought by a pleasant, well-spoken serving woman.
Naturally th library is stocked with a comprehensive collection in fine, tooled leather volumes of the finest and most amusing literature.
Twice monthly expeditions to London to dine at the Savoy, Rules, and other fine eating establishments before or after hearing Opera, symphony concerts, solo recitals, or the latest plays and theatrical revews round out this idyllic existence, –– and nothing would ever ever change.
There’s a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street ___ In the City as the sun sinks low; And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet ___ And fulfilled it with the sunset glow; And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain ___ That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light; And they’ve given it a glory and a part to play again ___ In the Symphony that rules the day and night.
And now it’s marching onward through the realms of old romance ___ And trolling out a fond familiar tune, And now it’s roaring cannon down to fight the King of France, ___ And now it’s prattling softly to the moon, And all around the organ there’s a sea without a shore ___ Of human joys and wonders and regrets; To remember and to recompense the music evermore ___ For what the cold machinery forgets. . . .
Yes; as the music changes, ___ Like a prismatic glass, It takes the light and ranges ___ Through all the moods that pass; Dissects the common carnival ___ Of passions and regrets, And gives the world a glimpse of all ___ The colours it forgets.
And there La Traviata sighs ___ Another sadder song; And there Il Trovatore cries ___ A tale of deeper wrong; And bolder knights to battle go ___ With sword and shield and lance, Than ever here on earth below ___ Have whirled into—a dance!—
Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; ___ Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn’t far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer’s wonderland; ___ Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn’t far from London!)
The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume, ___ The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!) And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world’s a blaze of sky ___ The cuckoo, though he’s very shy, will sing a song for London.
The Dorian nightingale is rare and yet they say you’ll hear him there ___ At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo ___ And golden-eyed tu-whit, tu-whoo, of owls that ogle London.
For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn’t heard ___ At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out ___ You’ll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorussing for London:—
Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; ___ Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn’t far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer’s wonderland; ___ Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn’t far from London!)
And then the troubadour begins to thrill the golden street, ___ In the City as the sun sinks low; And in all the gaudy busses there are scores of weary feet Making time, sweet time, with a dull mechanic beat, And a thousand hearts are plunging to a love they’ll never meet, Through the meadows of the sunset, through the poppies and the wheat, ___ In the land where the dead dreams go.
Verdi, Verdi, when you wrote Il Trovatore did you dream ___ Of the city when the sun sinks low, Of the organ and the monkey and the many-coloured stream On the Picadilly pavement, of the myriad eyes that seem To be litten for a moment with a wild Italian gleam As A che la morte parodies the world's eternal theme ___ And pulses with the sunset-glow.
There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen stone ___ In the City as the sun sinks low; There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own, There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone. And they're all of them returning to the heavens they have known: They are crammed and jammed in busses and—they're each of them alone ___ In the land where the dead dreams go.
There's a very modish woman and her smile is very bland ___ In the City as the sun sinks low; And her hansom jingles onward, but her little jewelled hand Is clenched a little tighter and she cannot understand What she wants or why she wanders to that undiscovered land, For the parties there are not at all the sort of thing she planned, ___ In the land where the dead dreams go.
There's a rowing man that listens, and his heart is crying out ___ In the City as the sun sinks low; For the barge, the eight, the Isis, and the coach's whoop and shout, For the minute-gun, the counting and the long dishevelled rout, For the howl along the tow-path and a fate that's still in doubt, For a roughened oar to handle and a race to think about ___ In the land where the dead dreams go.
There's a labourer that listens to the voices of the dead ___ In the City as the sun sinks low; And his hand begins to tremble and his face to smoulder red, As he sees a loafer watching him and—there he turns his head And stares into the sunset where his April love is fled, For he hears her softly singing, and his lonely soul is led ___ Through the land where the dead dreams go.
There's an old and haggard demi-rep, it's ringing in her ears, ___ In the City as the sun sinks low; With the wild and empty sorrow of the love that blights and sears, Oh, and if she hurries onward, then be sure, be sure she hears, Hears and bears the bitter burden of the unforgotten years, And her laugh's a little harsher and her eyes are brimmed with tears ___ For the land where the dead dreams go.
There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street ___ In the City as the sun sinks low; Though the music's only Verdi there's a world to make it sweet Just as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meet Mellows all the sooty City! Hark, a hundred thousand feet Are marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheat ___ In the land where the dead dreams go.
So it’s Jeremiah, Jeremiah, ___ What have you to say When you meet the garland girls ___ Tripping on their way?
All around my gala hat ___ I wear a wreath of roses (A long and lonely year it is ___ I’ve waited for the May!) If any one should ask you, ___ The reason why I wear it is— My own love, my true love, ___ Is coming home to-day.
And it’s buy a bunch of violets for the lady ___ (It’s lilac-time in London; It’s lilac-time in London!) Buy a bunch of violets for the lady ___ While the sky burns blue above:
On the other side the street you’ll find it shady ___ (It’s lilac-time in London! It’s lilac-time in London!) But buy a bunch of violets for the lady, ___ And tell her she’s your own true love.
There’s a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street ___ In the City as the sun sinks glittering and slow; And the music’s not immortal; but the world has made it sweet And enriched it with the harmonies that make a song complete In the deeper heavens of music where the night and morning meet, ___ As it dies into the sunset-glow; And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain __ That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light, And they’ve given it a glory and a part to play again ___ In the Symphony that rules the day and night.
And there, as the music changes, ___ The song runs round again. Once more it turns and ranges ___ Through all its joy and pain, Dissects the common carnival ___ Of passions and regrets; And the wheeling world remembers all ___ The wheeling song forgets.
Once more La Traviata sighs ___ Another sadder song: Once more II Trovatore cries ___ A tale of deeper wrong; Once more the knights to battle go ___ With sword and shield and lance Till once, once more, the shattered foe ___ Has whirled into—a dance!
Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac time; ___ Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand and hand with love in summer's wonderland; ___ Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
I was awake all night (after having slept most of the day), and, as is my won't, allowed the godess Serendipity to guide me to lofty realms of Insight and Inspiration.
8 comments:
The divinely gifted Mozart instinctively knew wheref he spoke, and –– at least in his art –– he was never wrong.
Duke Ellington knew it too, and expressed it in his own idiom when h wrote, "It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing. Doo Wah Doo Wah Doo Wah Doo Wah!
Both were really reiterating what St. Paul wrote in 1 Corinthians, 13. which says in essence that no matter how brilliant,powerful, colossal, effortful or advanced our achievements are worthless unless they are conceived in and motivated by Love (Charity).
I believe this really means "unless they are infused by the Holy Spirit.
C.S. Lewis, another type og genius, also understood and did his best to live by the same divine precept.
Not so the demon-inspired Marxists and the host of other malcontents and troublemakers who came before the diabolical, beardedl Karl.
Thank you for the lovely video of Inspector Lewis and his able assistant Hathaway who did their best to replace the erudite, patrician Opera-loving Inspector Morse after that august fellow whose life came to an untimely end, because he scorned the advice of his physicians..
Inspector Lewis may have been made from more common clay then his superior, but he was a good stout fellow, devoted to duty, with the instincts of a bloodhound, and nobody's fool.
Hathaway is atonishingly learned – especially for a policeman –– but retiring for such a young man, socially awkward and almost painfully shy with women.
Author Colin Dexter who created these characters, and wrote a series of highly engaging novels set in Oxford about the exploits of Inspector Morse, was a kind of genius, himself.
The opening sequences of the Inspector Lewis video have reawakened and underscored my personal conviction that, Heaven, if such a place exists, will for me be a well-loved, well-tended English Garden belonging to a venerable manor house where tea is laid out on wicker furniture optimally placed on the lawn every day the weather is fine.
Only the chirping of birds, and the gentle murmuring of a stream or trickling fountain disturbs the peace and stillness of the atmosphere. Machinery doesn't exist.
In the evening live performances by fine. well-schooled performers of Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann, Chopin, Brahms, Wagner, Strauss, Mhler an Hugo Wolf grace the Music Room before the evening collation is served to the artists and select number of congenial, appreciative, well-mannered guests.
A deep and dreamless sleep comes easily till one is gently awakened by the arrival of the mornng tea tray brought by a pleasant, well-spoken serving woman.
Naturally th library is stocked with a comprehensive collection in fine, tooled leather volumes of the finest and most amusing literature.
Twice monthly expeditions to London to dine at the Savoy, Rules, and other fine eating establishments before or after hearing Opera, symphony concerts, solo recitals, or the latest plays and theatrical revews round out this idyllic existence, –– and nothing would ever ever change.
PART ONE
____________ THE BARREL ORGAN ____________
There’s a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street
___ In the City as the sun sinks low;
And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet
___ And fulfilled it with the sunset glow;
And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain
___ That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light;
And they’ve given it a glory and a part to play again
___ In the Symphony that rules the day and night.
And now it’s marching onward through the realms of old romance
___ And trolling out a fond familiar tune,
And now it’s roaring cannon down to fight the King of France,
___ And now it’s prattling softly to the moon,
And all around the organ there’s a sea without a shore
___ Of human joys and wonders and regrets;
To remember and to recompense the music evermore
___ For what the cold machinery forgets. . . .
Yes; as the music changes,
___ Like a prismatic glass,
It takes the light and ranges
___ Through all the moods that pass;
Dissects the common carnival
___ Of passions and regrets,
And gives the world a glimpse of all
___ The colours it forgets.
And there La Traviata sighs
___ Another sadder song;
And there Il Trovatore cries
___ A tale of deeper wrong;
And bolder knights to battle go
___ With sword and shield and lance,
Than ever here on earth below
___ Have whirled into—a dance!—
Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;
___ Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn’t far from London!)
And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer’s wonderland;
___ Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn’t far from London!)
The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume,
___ The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!)
And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world’s a blaze of sky
___ The cuckoo, though he’s very shy, will sing a song for London.
The Dorian nightingale is rare and yet they say you’ll hear him there
___ At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)
The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo
___ And golden-eyed tu-whit, tu-whoo, of owls that ogle London.
For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn’t heard
___ At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)
And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out
___ You’ll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorussing for London:—
Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;
___ Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn’t far from London!)
And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer’s wonderland;
___ Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn’t far from London!)
And then the troubadour begins to thrill the golden street,
___ In the City as the sun sinks low;
And in all the gaudy busses there are scores of weary feet
Making time, sweet time, with a dull mechanic beat,
And a thousand hearts are plunging to a love they’ll never meet,
Through the meadows of the sunset, through the poppies and the wheat,
___ In the land where the dead dreams go.
Verdi, Verdi, when you wrote Il Trovatore did you dream
___ Of the city when the sun sinks low,
Of the organ and the monkey and the many-coloured stream
On the Picadilly pavement, of the myriad eyes that seem
To be litten for a moment with a wild Italian gleam
As A che la morte parodies the world's eternal theme
___ And pulses with the sunset-glow.
(CONTINUED)
PART TWO
There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen stone
___ In the City as the sun sinks low;
There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own,
There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone.
And they're all of them returning to the heavens they have known:
They are crammed and jammed in busses and—they're each of them alone
___ In the land where the dead dreams go.
There's a very modish woman and her smile is very bland
___ In the City as the sun sinks low;
And her hansom jingles onward, but her little jewelled hand
Is clenched a little tighter and she cannot understand
What she wants or why she wanders to that undiscovered land,
For the parties there are not at all the sort of thing she planned,
___ In the land where the dead dreams go.
There's a rowing man that listens, and his heart is crying out
___ In the City as the sun sinks low;
For the barge, the eight, the Isis, and the coach's whoop and shout,
For the minute-gun, the counting and the long dishevelled rout,
For the howl along the tow-path and a fate that's still in doubt,
For a roughened oar to handle and a race to think about
___ In the land where the dead dreams go.
There's a labourer that listens to the voices of the dead
___ In the City as the sun sinks low;
And his hand begins to tremble and his face to smoulder red,
As he sees a loafer watching him and—there he turns his head
And stares into the sunset where his April love is fled,
For he hears her softly singing, and his lonely soul is led
___ Through the land where the dead dreams go.
There's an old and haggard demi-rep, it's ringing in her ears,
___ In the City as the sun sinks low;
With the wild and empty sorrow of the love that blights and sears,
Oh, and if she hurries onward, then be sure, be sure she hears,
Hears and bears the bitter burden of the unforgotten years,
And her laugh's a little harsher and her eyes are brimmed with tears
___ For the land where the dead dreams go.
There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street
___ In the City as the sun sinks low;
Though the music's only Verdi there's a world to make it sweet
Just as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meet
Mellows all the sooty City! Hark, a hundred thousand feet
Are marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheat
___ In the land where the dead dreams go.
So it’s Jeremiah, Jeremiah,
___ What have you to say
When you meet the garland girls
___ Tripping on their way?
All around my gala hat
___ I wear a wreath of roses
(A long and lonely year it is
___ I’ve waited for the May!)
If any one should ask you,
___ The reason why I wear it is—
My own love, my true love,
___ Is coming home to-day.
And it’s buy a bunch of violets for the lady
___ (It’s lilac-time in London; It’s lilac-time in London!)
Buy a bunch of violets for the lady
___ While the sky burns blue above:
On the other side the street you’ll find it shady
___ (It’s lilac-time in London! It’s lilac-time in London!)
But buy a bunch of violets for the lady,
___ And tell her she’s your own true love.
(CONTINUED)
PART THREE
There’s a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street
___ In the City as the sun sinks glittering and slow;
And the music’s not immortal; but the world has made it sweet
And enriched it with the harmonies that make a song complete
In the deeper heavens of music where the night and morning meet,
___ As it dies into the sunset-glow;
And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain
__ That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light,
And they’ve given it a glory and a part to play again
___ In the Symphony that rules the day and night.
And there, as the music changes,
___ The song runs round again.
Once more it turns and ranges
___ Through all its joy and pain,
Dissects the common carnival
___ Of passions and regrets;
And the wheeling world remembers all
___ The wheeling song forgets.
Once more La Traviata sighs
___ Another sadder song:
Once more II Trovatore cries
___ A tale of deeper wrong;
Once more the knights to battle go
___ With sword and shield and lance
Till once, once more, the shattered foe
___ Has whirled into—a dance!
Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac time;
___ Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
And you shall wander hand and hand with love in summer's wonderland;
___ Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
~ Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)
What a beautiful sentiment & poem!
Thanks for sharing!
Than YOU for the opportunity.
I was awake all night (after having slept most of the day), and, as is my won't, allowed the godess Serendipity to guide me to lofty realms of Insight and Inspiration.
STREWTH! ;-)
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